


A Kiss Outside The Ritz

by AClever_Username



Series: Outside the Ritz [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (I hope anyway), And is also an absolute disaster, Crowley reads Romance novels, Fluff, Humour, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Specifically just after the scene at the Ritz, That thing Michael Sheen does with his eyes, episode 6 related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 13:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AClever_Username/pseuds/AClever_Username
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale leave the Ritz, and Crowley is so busy admiring his angel that Aziraphale catches him by surprise.Crowley promptly panics."Aziraphale had kissed him. Aziraphale. Zira. Principality of the Eastern gate of Eden. Ridiculous idiot who had given away his flaming sword. His angel."





	A Kiss Outside The Ritz

Crowley couldn’t stop touching his lips. He’d heard everything before – every ridiculous human cliché assigning some larger meaning to the simple touch of skin on skin. (Aziraphale’s lot didn’t care about that – his _definitely_ didn’t).

And yet. And yet his fingers trailed across his bottom lip again and again, the other hand clenched hard around the steering wheel of the Bentley. He was aware of his lips in a way he had never been aware of them before. _Before._ What were they before? Useless. Just useless, shaping words and pursing around the rim of a glass.

Crowley unsteadily inhaled, dropping his hand. He put it straight back. He ignored _Somebody to Love_ trailing quietly through the Bentley’s speakers. He similarly ignored the speedometer, but he did that usually.

Aziraphale had kissed him. Aziraphale. Zira. Principality of the Eastern gate of Eden. Ridiculous idiot who had given away his flaming sword. His angel.

Crowley hadn’t been expecting it. Not because he didn’t believe Aziraphale didn’t, at least a little, underneath all the blustering, feel that way about him, but because he’d resigned himself to the fact that the angel would never admit it, a little under 6,000 years ago.

They’d just left the Ritz, after a toast to the world’s continued existence after Armagedidn’t, and Crowley had sat and listened to Aziraphale ramble on about the absolutely _exquisite food they do here, have you tried the chestnut souffle?_ He’d slouched in his seat and watched the twinkle in Aziraphale’s eyes, not bothering to stop himself from leaning closer, and becoming distracted by the creases that folded themselves into Aziraphale’s face when he smiled. The white glimmer of his teeth, the emphatic sweep of his hand as he talked. Crowley basked in all things Aziraphale and it had hit him that, to everyone except Agnes Nutter’s bewildered astonishment, _all things Aziraphale_ still existed.

They’d only gone and averted the bloody apocalypse.

So Crowley could be excused for being just a tad out of it once they’d left, and were standing underneath the arches, watching the London traffic go by. Aziraphale was still talking, fiddling with his own fingers; Crowley had his hands shoved in his pockets, all his weight shifted on one leg – in other words the very picture of uninterested. But he was watching the curls of Aziraphale’s hair bob as the angel practically vibrated with enthusiasm (apparently some of the new books Adam had added to the bookshop were worth vibrating over).

And then as suddenly as Aziraphale had started talking he stopped. Crowley blinked down at him, raising his eyebrow in question. Aziraphale was staring at the pavement. He flicked his eyes up to meet Crowley’s, then away again. Then back. Crowley had seen Aziraphale do it many times before. _Bashful_ – when Aziraphale fluttered his eyes like that (and turned that lovely shade of pink, that crept up his neck in great blotches) he looked _bashful._

Crowley adored the look. He was usually only treated to it for a mere fleeting moment, but those fleeting moments he treasured none-the-less. Aziraphale always moved swiftly on, as if _literally_ walking away would erase what had slipped through that sweet flutter of lashes.

But Aziraphale didn’t continue down the street as expected. In fact, he did nothing much at all, except wrung his hands and looked back and forth between Crowley and the pavement. Crowley, pavement, another section of pavement, Crowley. Crowley didn’t know whether to be offended that he was competing for Aziraphale’s attention with a piece of concrete scarred with old gum.

“Angel?”

“Yes dear?” Aziraphale said, turning a pleasant smile to Crowley, fixing his eyes just to the edge of his glasses.

Crowley frowned. Aziraphale never focussed on his glasses, as most humans were want to, and if there was one thing Crowley knew, (and after 6,000 years, Crowley knew quite a lot) it was Aziraphale, and his genuine smile. That was not it. _That_ smile was somewhere between ‘worried’ and ‘thinking’.

“You alright?”

“Ah, just tickety-boo!”

Crowley frowned harder. “Right so that means something’s bothering you. What is it? Y’don’t think they’ll try and have another pop at us do you?” he asked, checking around himself for a streaks of cream, white, and tacky gold accents, or crow-bar wielding women in yellow raincoats.

The latter had been rather over-looked last time, after all.

“Oh! No, no. Nothing like that. Nothing at all like that,”

Crowley blinked at him. “Okay, so?.....”

Aziraphale finally met Crowley’s eyes, or at least his eyes through his glasses. Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s brow twitched with the beginnings of a frown, and he reached up a hand to pluck the glasses from Crowley’s face.

“Er, Angel?!”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice low, gentle. “No-one’s looking.”

Aziraphale let his hand drop back to his side, twiddling the glasses ever-so-slightly between finger and thumb. Crowley waited for him to do something. Aziraphale did nothing but stare. Once, he opened his mouth, inhaled, then closed it again.

Crowley swallowed. Despite claiming that books weren’t his thing, he had read a few, in his time. And _despite_ his protests, and the standstill traffic on the M11 created as highway maintenance (another one of Crowley’s _excellent_ inventions) blocked off all three lanes for a hubcap one may find themselves in for even _suggesting_ it, most of those books were Romances.

(They served one of two purposes: either Crowley had just spent a marvellous day with Aziraphale, and was feeling rather marvellous himself, and so settled down with a book to bask in the feeling of being in love and smile idiotically to himself, or Crowley had just spent a rather marvellous day with Aziraphale, and so was feeling rather melancholic and alone, and holed himself up with a book to pine and wallow in self-pity. A box of tissues was often included with option two).

Regardless, the fact of the matter was that Crowley had read a lot of romance novels, and every single one of those novels suggested that the next logical outcome of the situation Crowley found himself in – that was, standing outside the Ritz, glasses in Aziraphale’s hand, staring very intently at each other and swaying just _slightly_ closer – was a kiss.

But that was ridiculous, obviously. Because he was Crowley and Aziraphale was Aziraphale, and Aziraphale sometimes did ridiculous things, like he’d been taking notes from Crowley’s novels but had got distracted by a vintage Dickens before he got to the end.

So no matter how much Crowley _thought_ he knew what was going on, he disregarded all thoughts of _kissing_ and _Aziraphale’s lips_ and _leaning just a tad closer. _Aziraphale had once said he ‘went too fast’, after all, and ever since that moment in the dark car he’d tried so hard _not_ to, for his angel. (Apart from when he begged to run away together, but to be fair to him, the world was about to end). 

Crowley leaned just a little _away_ instead.

And Aziraphale’s face scrunched up in a frown.

Crowley cocked his head in question.

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looked steadily up at him, then quite suddenly set his jaw, said: “Oh _bugger_ this,” under his breath, leaned in, and kissed him.

Well, ‘kiss’ was probably a little generous; more accurately Aziraphale’s lips just pressed quite insistently against Crowley’s, and then they were gone.

Crowley opened his eyes, (absently noting that all those novels were true: they really _did_ close automatically) to see that Aziraphale had gone pink, and was clearing his throat of non-existent blockages, but his eyes were still on Crowley’s, waiting; radiating nerves, yes – but also satisfaction. It was the look Aziraphale wore when he was certain he had done the Right Thing, and was utterly unapologetic about doing so, as if he _dared_ someone to convince him otherwise. Succinctly, Aziraphale looked rather pleased with himself.

“Crowley?” he said after a few moments, when it became apparent that Crowley was rather frozen there on the pavement, yellow eyes wide.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley started, his voice barely above a whisper, and then he stopped, because for the life of him he couldn’t think of anything _at all_ to say. Even all those lines of cheesy romance novel dialogue were gone. He was aware that it was his turn to say something, most probably some kind of witty one-liner or quip, but Aziraphale was right in front of him, still pink about the cheeks, having just kissed him.

“Yes?”

“Tea was absolutely _lovely,_ must do that again sometime! And, and then I’ll have some of those things you were telling me about, the scrumptious ones, or was it _‘exquisite?’-_ ”

“Crowley-”

“CHESTNUT SOUFFLES!” Crowley forged ahead, gesticulating wildly, “those! I’ll have some of those and, er, er - oh would you look at the time!” he exclaimed, having never have checked his watch, but having caught sight of the Bentley glinting in the sun. “So sorry but I’ve – plants – flat – _leaves,”_ he panicked, because Crowley was DEFINITELY PANICKING.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale tried again.

But Crowley was already striding towards the car, the door swinging open for him as he slithered inside, and tossed a final “Cheerio!” over his shoulder.

Crowley pulled away from the curb with a lurch, avoiding a four-car pile-up by some kind of _divine miracle_ and speeding off down the street.

He’d made four random turns before he realised he’d forgotten his glasses.

It took him another ten minutes, alternating between all but rubbing the skin off his lips and attempting to wrap his head around what on earth had just happened, to realise that he’d made an absolute _mess_ of that exit.

“Oh _FUCK!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hi so I watched the show in a day, immediately bought the book, read that in two, and now i'm obsessed and watching clips of michael sheen attempting to peel an onion with a peeler at 3am. 
> 
> I've never written for this fandom before (in my defence I wasn't alive when the book was published) but i wanted to have a go regardless, so hope you like. There may be a part two?
> 
> Mistakes are all mine etc and kudos/comments are very much appreciated - i adore replying :)


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